Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

“I ran the plates on the silver pickup,” the chief said. “It’s not registered to Kori or her uncle. It’s not even registered in Illinois.”

After a long silence, I realized that Jenx was staring at me.

“What?” I said.

“What the hell kind of volunteer deputy are you? Don’t you want to know who the silver pickup belongs to?”

I propped myself up as best I could. “Sure. Is it somebody I’ve heard of?”

“It’s somebody in Magnet Springs,” Jenx said.

Immediately I thought of every Magnet Springer I knew who owned a truck. Most were fellow Main Street merchants. None seemed potentially violent or even conniving. Sure, we were all hard pressed to make a living these days, but nobody struck me as desperate enough to kill. Or crazy enough to kidnap an Afghan hound. Especially not if my dog was along for the ride.

At my bedside, Jenx produced a folded sling. Then she carefully removed Mrs. Yoder’s poultices and slipped my right arm into its new cradle.

“You always carry medical supplies in your hip pocket?” I asked.

“Only when I come to rescue you.”

As she eased me out of bed, I remarked that I’d never seen this nurturing side of her.

“And if you tell anybody,” she said. “I’ll kill you. I know how to do it and leave no trace.”

Moving through the Yoder’s home, I suddenly found myself thinking like a Realtor for the first time in days. Based on its interior details, the farmhouse appeared to have been built in the nineteen-teens. I admired the four-inch oak molding, the brass door hardware, the old plank floors, and the high ceilings.

MacArthur and Chester were waiting for us in the kitchen. Chester had dressed again in his school blazer and chinos, but his hair was still flat from its time under a straw hat. Jacob and Rachel were there, too; the little girl clung to Mrs. Yoder’s skirt, apparently for protection. Next to the freestanding kitchen sink, which was powered, I noticed, by an old fashioned hand pump, stood a severe-looking bearded man I took to be Mr. Yoder.

“Your home is beautiful,” I said, beaming at him and his wife. They did not beam back. In fact, they averted their eyes. “Of course, I haven’t seen the outside because I was unconscious, but the inside is very well maintained.”

Nobody replied. That was my cue to do what I always do when I get nervous: I babbled.

“Even though I’m not licensed to sell real estate in Indiana, I would venture to say that, should you decide to put your farm on the market, you could probably get close to your asking price from the right buyer, even in this economy. That’s often the case with unique properties. I don’t know how many acres or out-buildings you have here, but let’s focus on the house itself. Assuming you’re not in a floodplain, your foundation is solid, your roof is recent, and your chimney flues can be brought up to code with heat-resistant tiles, you’ve got yourselves a winner! Sure, these old farmhouses typically lack closet space and have small rooms by today’s standards, but your kitchen is plenty large. In fact, it feels downright spacious.”

Suddenly I understood why. There were no major appliances taking up space. But did that stop me from enumerating sales features? Hell no.

“I know from drinking your delicious water that you have either a fine spring or an excellent well. Are your wiring and plumbing up to code?”

Chester cleared his throat. Right. There was no wiring in this house because there was no electricity. And how much indoor plumbing could an Amish home have? I didn’t recall passing a bathroom, although they must have a chamber pot and tub stashed somewhere. Did they heat the water in the kitchen and haul it?

“Anyway, lovely room!” I gushed. “Although I recommend upgrading to granite countertops. You’ll be glad you did.”

Chester and Jenx dragged me toward the door.

“Thank you for your hospitality! And the poultices!” I called out.

“She’s in shock from her wounds,” MacArthur told the Yoders as he closed the door behind us.

Back at the Barnyard Inn, Chester helped me pack up the items I’d strewn about my room. Then he loaded my bag in the back of my car and waited while I neurotically returned to Number 17 for one last overview. The stained carpet, tattered drapes, and ragged bedspread were beyond depressing. Abra, now gone-who was my whole reason for coming-hadn’t spent a single night there with me.

I emerged to find my eight-year-old neighbor chatting up the red-haired mystery author as she loaded unsold books into her minivan. Leaning against my car, I watched Chester charm her as only Chester could. There’s something delightful about a boy who looks six and talks like a forty-year-old guidance counselor.

Suddenly he pointed at me, and the author smiled. Then she waved. I waved back without enthusiasm. All I wanted to do was hit the highway. The author handed a box of books to Chester. So many books that he staggered under the load. She climbed into her minivan, tooted her horn, and drove off as Chester trundled the box over to me.

“Please don’t tell me you got her to give you those. You can afford to buy books, Chester.”

“I did buy them,” he huffed, signaling for me to open my hatchback. “I’m going to donate them to the Magnet Springs library.”

“No wonder the author looked happy.”

“Oh, that’s not why she’s happy,” he said. “I told her you used a copy of her latest book to fend off a goat attack. She liked that idea so much she’s going to put it in her next novel!”

Because of my injuries, Jenx had recommended that MacArthur drive me and Chester home in my car. So I climbed into the passenger seat and waited for the cleaner. Chester busied himself with his Blackberry in the backseat.

When MacArthur arrived, I asked how he planned to get his Harley back to Michigan. He said he had friends who would handle it. MacArthur didn’t seem the type to have friends, only clients with sticky issues. I knew very little about his personal life.

Although he had kept me, Susan, and Ramona alive, I wasn’t terribly impressed with his performance as bodyguard. Both Ramona and I had been shot, after all. Still, he was working for free, and I appreciated the relaxing drive home. But who was this guy, and what was his relationship with Kori? Did he simply like stealing kisses from bad girls? Or was he actively protecting a convicted felon who had run afoul of the law yet again?

Nobody said much on the ride back to Magnet Springs. The evening was classic Midwest autumn: a sky sliding from azure to slate blue as the day’s vibrant colors relaxed into gray, the air chilled down, and the night breeze turned still. Through my slightly open window, I caught the scent of distant wood smoke and the tang of apples rotting on the ground. We were traveling through Indiana, but it smelled like home.

That night, back at Vestige, I dreamed of the dog show. Abra-handled by Kori-burst into the ring while the judge was making his “Best of Show” decision. The crowd went wild, giving Kori and Abra a standing ovation, complete with whistles and hoots. The judge stopped what he was doing and signaled the spectators to settle down. Then he requested a microphone and made an announcement: “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t award the unique achievements of this hound and her handler. Therefore, it gives me great pleasure to recognize both Abra the Afghan hound and Kori Davies as Worst in Show!”

The judge presented them with an oversized gold trophy. Kori performed an erotic dance accompanied by Abra’s piercing howls and leaps. I wept with pride.

I awoke confused in the early darkness of Sunday morning. The dream seemed almost plausible. Shaking my head, I giggled a little. Suddenly I felt a stab of sadness. Abra was still missing.